Foul Play: Dead Ball

by Tom Palmer

  ‘And suddenly you’re just heading off to Moscow,’ Charlotte said. ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Danny said defensively.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Danny. Don’t tell me there’s nothing going on.’

  ‘There’s nothing going on,’ Danny said, deadpan.

  ‘It’s to do with last time,’ Paul cut in, ‘isn’t it?’

  ‘Last time?’

  ‘Sam Roberts. Gawthorpe. All that.’

  ‘It’s not,’ Danny protested.

  ‘All I know,’ Charlotte said, ‘is that you’re up to something.’

  And then Danny found he was laughing. He was the one who was always accused of seeing crime around every corner: now they were making up things that might not be there.

  When Danny had stopped laughing, Charlotte went on. ‘Here’s how I see it. Four months ago you were involved in saving Sam Roberts from kidnappers. But there was nothing on the news. And you swore us to secrecy. And now you’re there when Alex Finn is nearly killed in a car accident. And – what do you know? – it’s not on the news. Even though you say it wasn’t an accident. And – to add to that – you’re off to see England play in Moscow.’

  Danny nodded. It was all true. He could see Charlotte and Paul watching him, grinning. He knew why they thought what they thought. And their theories were so exciting he wished they were true. But the truth was that there was nothing going on. Not with him, anyway. Not for sure, but he wondered if he should tell them about his half-baked theories. Why not? They’d kept the Roberts stuff to themselves. He trusted them.

  ‘Look, it’s all straightforward,’ he said, ‘it’s only…’

  ‘Here we go,’ Charlotte said to Paul.

  Danny lowered his voice. ‘It’s just I think the accident wasn’t an accident. That’s all. I think someone tried to kill Alex Finn.’

  ‘Who?’ Paul asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Great detective you are,’ Charlotte smiled.

  ‘There’s a number of things it could be,’ Danny said.

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Well, someone had to have a reason to do it.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Charlotte agreed.

  ‘So who?’ Danny asked.

  ‘Like I told you, you’re the wannabe detective,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it could be another player,’ Danny said.

  ‘Matt McGee,’ Paul cut in.

  ‘Why him?’

  ‘He’s well dodgy.’

  ‘And Skatie isn’t?’

  ‘No,’ Paul said.

  ‘Fair enough. So it could be McGee. But why? Could it be someone else? Who else would have a reason?’

  ‘Someone Russian,’ Paul said. ‘Revenge for last week.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s an extreme reaction,’ Charlotte pointed out. ‘No one would try to kill a player of another team – just for beating their team.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Danny said. ‘Maybe not. Unless there’s more to it than just a football result.’

  ‘Like what?’ Paul wanted to know.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Great,’ Charlotte said, rolling her eyes.

  Danny looked at Charlotte. Why was she always on his case like this? Always wanting an argument.

  ‘Who else?’ Danny said, pushing them.

  ‘A bookmaker?’ Paul suggested.

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Why are you asking us?’ Charlotte said. ‘You’re the one who goes to court cases, reads the crime pages in the paper, films burglars, puts newspaper clippings and maps up on his bedroom walls.’

  ‘Three heads are better than one,’ Danny said. And he meant it. He loved talking to these two about his investigations. If you could bounce ideas off other people they could help you work out what was true and what was a mistake. That’s why he was doing it. He remembered a crime novel he’d read to his dad. Based in Sweden. The main detective used to talk to his colleagues, trying out ideas, letting them rubbish his theories. Until he found the answer.

  ‘So you reckon McGee,’ Paul said. ‘I do.’

  ‘I dunno,’ Danny said. ‘I’ve read some interesting stuff about him on the Net.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like he’s involved with all sorts. In fact,’ Danny paused, ‘I saw him with that drug dealer a few weeks ago. In the city centre. The one who was on trial.’

  ‘There you go then,’ Paul declared.

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not enough.’

  ‘Who was the criminal?’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Gavin Barnes,’ Danny said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Danny looked at Charlotte. Who’d said that?

  ‘EXCUSE ME?’

  The voice had come from over the fence. It was a tall woman. Her posh voice piercing the night.

  ‘Hello,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Could you tell your friends inside that if the music is not turned down in one minute I am going to call the police?’ The voice paused. ‘Please.’

  ‘OK,’ Charlotte said, smiling and getting up, leaving the woman behind the fence to utter murmurs of surprise rather than annoyance.

  Danny grinned at Paul. He liked Charlotte: the way she always surprised people.

  Seconds later the volume of the music dropped. And Charlotte emerged. The woman nodded and said thank you. Quietly.

  ‘One more thing,’ Charlotte said to Danny on her return.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want you to send me a video of yourself every day you’re in Moscow.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Evidence,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Evidence of what?’

  ‘Evidence that you’re OK.’

  SUNDAY

  FEAR OF FLYING

  It was a British Airways Boeing 737. Danny studied the plane through the huge panes of glass of Terminal One.

  Here he was again.

  Every time he was about to get on a plane he had the same question: how the hell could something so huge and heavy – filled with people, bags and aviation fuel – fly?

  He knew he’d never understand it.

  He smiled, checking his pocket to make sure his passport and roubles were still there.

  So far there had been no sign of the England squad. Holt had come with Danny through to the airport lounge, then gone off to a café to do some emails on his laptop. And Danny was left to contemplate being on a plane with England’s finest footballers, several FA officials and most of the country’s leading football writers.

  He was nervous. Or excited. He wasn’t sure which. He’d felt like this since he’d left home.

  Even Emily hadn’t been able to put a dampener on him. When Dad had handed him a book as a present for the trip, his sister had demanded a present from Russia. She’d asked for a Russian doll: she’d always wanted a set, she said. Danny had raised his eyebrows at her, then shook his head.

  The lounge for gate thirteen – all comfy orange seats and coffee shops – was full of football writers. A group of men in suits, without ties. Some talking. Many into their mobile phones. Danny recognized some of them from the newspapers; at the top of most sports columns, nowadays, there was a small postage stamp-sized picture of the writer. Then Danny saw Gary Lineker. And Mark Lawrenson. He grinned, then looked at the floor, trying not to stare.

  But it was when the players arrived that things got exciting. All twenty-two walking together. All twenty-two in blue suits with ties. Danny knew why this was. The England manager demanded the players dress to represent their country. In team colours on and off the pitch.

  Danny recognized all of the players.

  Peter Day, Ipswich.

  Stuart Lane, Aston Villa.

  Patrick Bingley, Arsenal.

  Phil White, Liverpool.

  Mike Leigh, Reading.

  Lewis Poole, Leeds United.

  He regretted that Sam Roberts was not among them. He’d got to know Roberts a bit after the kidnapping
. Roberts had even been to his house for tea.

  As the team arrived, the whole airport lounge went quiet for a few seconds. All you could hear was their footsteps. It reminded Danny of a church, when the choir and vicars come through the congregation. And then someone shouted ‘Good luck, lads!’ And suddenly there were lots of voices calling out.

  A man at the front of the players ushered the team through to the plane immediately. He handed the flight official a pile of passports. And the players just walked through the business-class entrance – and disappeared.

  When they’d gone Danny looked back at the lounge. Hundreds of people hanging over balconies and stairways, huddled in groups. All staring.

  On the plane there was no sign of the players.

  ‘Where are they?’ Danny asked Holt, who was clipping his seat-belt across his lap.

  ‘Business class. Up front,’ Holt said. ‘Beyond those curtains.’

  ‘Can’t you talk to them during the flight? Do interviews?’

  ‘Rarely,’ Holt said. ‘And only usually at press conferences. And only with an FA official there. Even in the hotel we’ve got to be careful. Not talk about the team and tactics and all that. We’d be banned. But things are better than they used to be. Apparently under one former English manager, you couldn’t get near anyone.’

  The plane began to move. In reverse. Then it taxied towards the runway. Danny was by the window, with Holt next to him in the aisle.

  A hand came over the top of the seat and tapped Holt on the head.

  ‘Hold on tight, Anton,’ a voice said. ‘I hear this captain’s a bit ropey.’

  Holt grinned and looked back. ‘Cheers, David,’ he said. ‘That’s a great help.’

  The hand disappeared, followed by laughter.

  ‘What was that about?’ Danny said.

  ‘Flying,’ Holt said.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What?’ Danny insisted.

  ‘I’m not keen,’ Holt said. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Really?’ Danny said. ‘I love it.’

  ‘Well, you enjoy it,’ Holt muttered, closing his eyes.

  Danny shrugged and stared out of the window. He loved this bit. He’d been on planes six times in his life. To Italy and back. Florida. And Cyprus.

  The plane stopped at the end of the runway. Over the intercom the captain said, ‘Crew prepare for take-off’ in a low and confident voice.

  Then the engines began to roar.

  Danny was pushed back into his seat. He watched the airport move by as the plane accelerated. The noise was thrilling. The speed faster and faster. They must be halfway down the runway now. This was the point Danny loved. Unable to believe the plane would take off. But knowing it was going too fast to stop now. Then feeling the lift. The jump of the plane. Then the dramatic upsurge into the sky, the airport and the roads and fields around it suddenly falling away. He felt his stomach cramp as the undercarriage banged shut.

  Danny looked at Holt. His eyes were shut tight, lines across his face. Danny had wanted to ask him about the car crash. But this was probably not a good time. He laughed to himself.

  Danny watched the airport and the city become smaller and smaller. Lines of cars on motorways. Reservoirs reflecting the clouds. Sunlight filling the cabin as they passed over England.

  He loved flying.

  A few minutes later, Holt was asleep. So Danny took out the book his dad had given him. The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. He got straight into it: a spy wants to stop being a spy. But he is dragged into events in Communist East Germany, where he doesn’t know who to trust. His friend turns out to be his enemy. His enemy turns out to be his friend. Double agents turn out to be merely agents. Agents, double agents.

  Danny settled back and began to read.

  DOUBLE AGENT

  After about half an hour, a team of cabin crew brought trays of food around. Danny put his book down.

  He looked at his food. Cottage pie. Limp vegetables. Sponge cake. A carton of water.

  Holt seemed happier now he’d had a short sleep. He smiled at Danny.

  ‘Good?’ he said, eyeing Danny’s food.

  ‘Not bad,’ Danny said.

  ‘And you’re looking forward to Moscow?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Danny replied. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. To get Holt to talk about the crash.

  ‘Sort of?’

  ‘I want to talk about the other day,’ Danny said. ‘The accident.’

  ‘Leave it, Danny,’ Holt said, his voice quieter. ‘Please!’

  ‘How can we?’ Danny whispered.

  ‘I mean you, Danny. Just enjoy the trip. I’ve responsibilities to keep you out of trouble. To your parents. Remember I promised you’d be fine. That I’d look after you?’

  Danny knew now that there was definitely something going on. More than Holt just writing a story. Why was he being so cagey? He’d always been straight before.

  And an insane thought drifted into Danny’s mind.

  Holt.

  Was he a double agent? Someone who worked for two sides. Maybe he was involved in something more than writing newspaper articles.

  But Danny knew he was being stupid. The book he’d been reading was warping his thoughts. Holt was his friend. Holt was straight. If he was hiding anything it was to protect Danny.

  But Danny just couldn’t leave it alone.

  ‘You’re treating me like a kid,’ he said. He regretted it immediately.

  ‘That’s way out of order,’ Holt whispered loudly. ‘I have never treated you like a kid. What about Sam Roberts? I trusted you all the way with that. Remember?’

  Danny nodded. He had to concede that point. It was true.

  ‘So don’t accuse me of that,’ Holt went on.

  ‘Tell me something,’ Danny pleaded.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Danny. And this is the last thing I’ll say. Otherwise you’re going back to England on this plane once it reaches Moscow.’

  Danny’s shoulders dropped. ‘What?’

  ‘Leave it well alone. Enjoy the trip – but no funny business. And that is the last I have to say on it. If anything, you’re making me treat you like a kid by behaving like a kid. OK?’

  Holt held Danny with a fierce stare.

  ‘OK,’ Danny said, reluctantly.

  It was a closed door. Danny tried not to feel the sort of frustrated anger he felt towards his parents when they told him off. Because that was what had just happened.

  An hour later – somewhere over Poland – Danny was waiting outside the plane toilet. In the space between business class and economy. Bursting. The cabin crew had brought him three cans of Coke already.

  He tried to take his mind off it by looking around the plane. At the small oval windows. At the seats, row after row, going back to the tail of the plane. But he couldn’t stop hopping from one foot to another. Until he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘You all right?’

  Danny turned round.

  It was Matt McGee. The Matt McGee.

  Danny had nothing to say. Here was the man he’d been thinking about, almost investigating.

  ‘You’re a bit young for press, aren’t you?’ McGee went on. He was tall – like Finn – but had darker hair and a more friendly face.

  Danny grinned. ‘I’m on – er – work experience. With Anton Holt.’

  McGee stepped back. ‘You’re kidding,’ he said. ‘When I was a kid I did work experience at a supermarket. Unbelievable.’

  ‘I was lucky,’ Danny said.

  ‘So what are your mates doing for their work experience? Is one of them flying this plane?’ McGee grabbed on to one of the seats, like he was worried they were going to crash.

  Danny laughed.

  Then the toilet door opened. Danny recognized the man emerging from the small room. Ray Stubbs from Match of the Day. Stubbs nodded to McGee.

  ‘After you,’ McGee said to Danny.

  And Danny locked
himself in the toilet. He put his back against the door. To get his breath back. He’d talked to Matt McGee. And he’d seemed all right. A really nice man. Not the drunken, gambling, former criminal everyone made him out to be.

  WEIRD CITY

  The first thing that struck Danny in the airport was the signs. Half the letters in the words were weird – not from the A to Z alphabet he knew. There were back-to-front Ns and upside-down Vs. It was seriously unsettling. Danny liked to know what signs said.

  All the press and FA officials had to queue in a line to have their visas checked. Along with Danny. But the players had gone on, whisked away by the man with his pile of passports.

  As Danny approached passport control he began to feel nervous. There were several glass booths. Each had a stern-faced official checking the passengers through. Danny saw what they did. They looked at the passport, then at the person’s face. After putting the passport through some sort of scanner, they then spent a long time reading it.

  Behind them was a row of police or army officers. Each with a huge brimmed hat. And – Danny was shocked to see – they carried machine-guns. He’d never seen a machine-gun before: not in real life.

  There was a line on the floor you had to stand behind before you were summoned. Danny dutifully stood behind it. Then he was summoned. By a woman. About the same age as his mum. Her dark hair pinned back severely so that it pulled her eyebrows upwards with a look of surprise. Her eyes were narrow, her nose long and thin.

  She looked at Danny’s passport. Then at his face.

  Danny knew he had to try and look like himself. He didn’t want to smile. You weren’t supposed to smile.

  Then she scanned his passport through her machine. And passed it back to him.

  He was surprised how quick it had been. But he didn’t hang around to complain.

  Danny walked on. Past the machine-guns. As fast as he could without running. He wanted to find Holt. Quickly. Where was he? Everything was glass panes and white panelling. It was featureless, putting Danny on edge. All the time he was thinking that security would be on the look-out for people behaving strangely. And now he couldn’t help but think that he was behaving strangely.